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“A dick?” She laughs, and I snort as well, pushing the door open to the warm night air.
“A motorcycle,” I clarify, and she blanches a little, lifting her foot so I can see her high heels.
“I’ll get a taxi,” she says. “Just give me an address.”
“We can take one together,” I tell her amiably. “I’ll just call my man and have him send someone to pick it up.”
Normally I’d be loathed to leave my bike somewhere until Jacob or one of the other men could come to get it, but I know the bartender and most of the clientele here well enough to trust them. Instead, I leave it at the back of the bar, sending Jacob a message as I rejoin Amy at the front, and together we flag down a cab.
She slides into the warm interior, and I wince as I follow, telling the driver my address. It had seemed like a nice gesture when I’d made it, but inside the cramped space with the musty air and smells of previous riders, I’m already longing for my motorcycle.
Amy is chattering about something, her hand on my knee, but I’m thinking about the earlier ride, Saoirse on the back of my bike, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist as she clung to me, my jacket on her shoulders, the scent of her hair in my nostrils as we’d sped down the road towards her hotel.
Knowing now that it was Saoirse, it feels all the more incredible that she actually got on my bike. Saoirse is the last woman in the world that I ever thought would get on the back of a motorcycle. Yet, she’d actually seemed excited about the idea.
Or maybe that was just another part of the act.
Thatthought, for some reason, really pisses me off—more so than any other. That carries me through the taxi ride back to my apartment, out to the sidewalk, and up the stairs, as I unlock the door and let Amy inside.
“Nice place,” she says as I flick the lights on.
“Thanks.” It’s nothing special, at least not compared to the home I grew up in, a Boston colonial that would have been a mansion compared to this. This is a nice enough loft-style apartment, with floors that are at least actual hardwood and big windows by where my bed is. They were closed against the rain when I left, but now that it’s stopped, I stride over and prop them open, letting in the warm rain-washed summer air.
“Want another drink?” I ask, gesturing towards my liquor cabinet, but Amy shakes her head, crossing the room to me.
Her body is flush up against mine instantly, her blonde hair tumbling down her back as she tips her chin up for a kiss. “I think I’ll take this instead,” she says as her lips seek out mine and my hands find her waist.
It’s easy. Itshouldbe so easy. She smells like sugar and strawberries and tastes like gin. She melts into my body, into my mouth, without hesitation, like the dozens of women who have come before her. And that, I realize, as I wonder why my erection is half-hearted at best, is the problem.
As nice of a lass as Amy is, well-meaning and probably a firecracker in bed based on how she kisses, I won’t remember much about her by tomorrow night. I certainly won’t think to call her. By next week, I will probably have forgotten her name.
Saoirse, on the other hand, I couldn’t entirely forget even when I thought I didn’t want her. Something about her stuck with me all these years, even if it was all tangled up with my occasional homesickness, and now that she’s back—now that I’ve seen a side of her that I never imagined she possessed—
I won’t forget Saoirse by next week. In fact, if I turn Graham down and tell the both of them to go back to Boston and leave me be, I’m pretty sure I’ll be thinking about my fingers in Saoirse’s lace panties in that elevator for the rest of my life, and regretting never getting to find out what could have come after.
“What’s wrong, William?” Amy looks up at me, pouting slightly. “Too much to drink?”
I seize on that excuse, even as I can’t believe I’m cockblockingmyselfthis time, all over a girl I’d left behind years ago. “That must be it,” I agree. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll call you a cab.”
Amy’s eyes widen a little in protest, disappointment clear on her features. “We could just sit a while,” she suggests. “See how the night goes?”
“’Fraid not,” I tell her reluctantly. “I’m not a man to often get whiskey dick, but once it starts—” I gesture helplessly towards my groin as if there’s simply nothing to be done about it. “No use sitting around for more disappointment.”
“I could stay for a cuddle?” she suggests. “And maybe in the morning—”
“If there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s sleepovers,” I tell her firmly. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you a cab home and pay for it, but you should go.”
Her disappointment is palpable, but she lets it go at that. As I open the door to let her out when the cab arrives, I let out a long sigh as I watch her round ass sway down the steps, visions of it in my hands as I plowed her fading rapidly.
What the bloody hell is wrong with me?The answer is clear—Saoirse is what’s wrong with me. Everything was fine—better than fine, really—until she quite literally fell into my lap, and my night has been a mess ever since.
The memory of Saoirse squirming in my lap sends all the reluctant blood racing to my cock at once, and I’m suddenly, painfully hard. I glare down at it, gritting my teeth as I retreat into my bedroom, stripping off as my dick throbs in my jeans.
“Where the fuck were you a few minutes ago when there was a warm, willing woman in this room?” I demand, looking down at my stiff cock.
The absolute last thing I need to do right now, for my own sanity, is jerk off thinking of Saoirse. But the images of her flood back in, from the warehouse to the elevator, her gorgeous eyes and full lips and thatbody, her parted mouth, and soft gasps as I touched her, fingered her, the heat of her around my fingers and how fuckingwetshe was. I’m halfway through that fantasy before realizing that my hand is around my cock, stroking madly.
I can’t stop. I rock forward on my toes, my hips thrusting into my hand as I remember her cries, her gasps and moans, the sounds she made.I was the first,I think, as I fist my cock, and normally that thought wouldn’t arouse me, but tonight it has me on the verge of coming.
